Medieval Madness
by Emiliya Wolfe
Summary: Various stories from the founder's era: Creation of the Homenum Revelio 2: The Bloody Baron and Helena Ravenclaw 3: what caused Morgana to go dark?
1. An End to Invisibility

**Written for Hogwarts assignment 15.**

 _ **A Study of Languages - Latin:**_ **Homenum Revelio - Reveal humans**

 **Word count: 1735.**

* * *

Gideon rolled up the sleeves of his wizards' robes and tried again, channelling all of his energy into the spell. 'Finite.'

Getting out his Omnioculars, he did a sweep of the forest, even calling his Hippogriff down so that he could fly over the treetops to do a thorough check. There was nothing.

However, he knew that this was where he would be able to find the elusive Morgan le Fey. Powerful a witch as she may be, the Wizard's Council had the means to prevent her from escaping.

Gideon, as Captain of the Hippogriff division, had been called upon for his team's expertise: scouting, tracking, and more often than not, hunting. Morgana had been on the run for many summers now, and last harvest, they had caught sight of here in one of the nearby villages.

They had immediately herded her into the forest, erecting Anti-Apparition Charms and Tripping Jinxes around the borders. Fifty of Gideon's best men patrolled the outskirts in pairs, ensuring that if Morgana were to escape, at least she would not escape unnoticed.

However, the moon had waxed and waned without Gideon catching neither hide nor hair of the elusive Dark witch. The Council was getting impatient, but Gideon knew Morgana by now - he had been tracking her for a while. She would not escape the forest without a dramatic exit to prove her superior spell-casting abilities.

If only there were an easier way to detect her.

But no such spell had been invented yet.

Gideon stopped, drawing up short. No such spell had been invented yet, but that didn't mean that one couldn't be created now.

Immediately, he swung Fleetfoot around, back towards the nearest Lord's castle, and the one person who could help him.

* * *

'Father,' Gideon nodded, descending from Fleetfoot's back.

A page immediately threw the Hippogriff a slab of meat, coaxing him into the enlarged stables.

'Gideon,' Merwyn nodded, his hunched back seemingly more crooked than ever.

There was little love lost between Gideon and his father. In fact, Gideon had made sure to separate himself as much as possible from his father's name. "Merwyn the Malicious", they called him, due to his invention of many hexes and curses. Although he was a subject of ridicule, the 28 great wizarding families never failed to consult him on his most recent creations. Even the Council referred to Merwyn when it came to identifying Dark magic cast on Hit Wizards returning from dangerous missions.

And this time, it was Gideon who had come to seek his council. The younger man's palms were sweating at the thought of it.

'The prodigal son returns,' Merwyn leered. He spread out his arms in invitation. 'Come, Gideon. There is a feast in place; you're just in time for the pheasant course.'

'I'm not here to exchange pleasantries, father,' Gideon announced. He was of the opinion that one must get to the point. A Gryffindor trait, if there ever was one, and yet another difference between him and his Ravenclaw father.

'Clearly,' Merwyn replied dryly, huddling back into his robes and leading the way to his research quarters. 'What does the Captain of the guard wish from me now, hmm? Come on boy, I don't have all day.'

'Scout Captain,' Gideon corrected in a whisper, but his father ignored him. _How is it that he makes me feel as though I were but a boy?_ He took a breath, determined not to be intimidated. 'I was tasked with hunting down Morgan le Fey.'

His father perked up at that, as Gideon knew he would. If there was one person Merwyn would willingly share his knowledge with, it would be Morgan le Fey, widely known for her work in Healing. Oh, how his father would love to get his hands on her brain.

'I have cornered her in a forest,' Gideon continued. 'But she has proven to be too elusive. The Wizard's Council grows weary, and Morgana could easily live off the game for many moons to come.'

'And so you've come to me to ask for a way to catch her,' Merwyn said patronisingly, filling in the blanks. The corner of his lip curled in derision. 'Really, Gideon, I thought you would have to have _some_ skill to be promoted to Captain.'

'I don't need you to _catch_ her,' Gideon replied defensively. 'Just... I need something to counteract her invisibility. I can do the rest myself.'

'A spell to show a wizard's true form, no matter the cloaking magic...' Merwyn mused. 'I know not if this is possible.'

The gleam of curiosity in the old man's eyes belied his words, and it took only a hint that Gideon would let Merwyn accompany him on his return journey to have the white-haired wizard clearing his desk of all clutter. As Gideon leaned against the only wall not covered in books, Merwyn hunted through tomes and parchment until he found what he was looking for.

'One must never be too careful in the creation of new spells,' Merwyn lectured, the former mockery gone from his voice. 'The incantation must be in Latin, so as to prevent the accidental casting of magic. Now,' he hummed to himself, turning pages. 'Here we are. _Anima_. The essence of life, of being. No. Too general. You would reveal the very trees themselves. _Vivo_. Better. Let this be our first attempt.

'What do you wish for this spell to accomplish?' Merwyn suddenly asked his son, pausing in his research.

'To show the witch I hunt,' Gideon said, frustration bleeding into his voice. His brother had always had more patience with his father than he. Perhaps he should have brought Elijah along with him, but it was too late for that now.

Merwyn didn't reply at first, scribbling possible translations down. Gideon listened to the scratching of the quill and tried to remain at ease. _There are some things that are not natural_ , he thought. Gideon couldn't write and could barely read, but his affinity for natural magic and his memory had helped him through Hogwarts.

' _Vivo ostendere_ ,' Merwyn said, and Gideon couldn't deny that the words had power. 'Try this, boy, and picture very clearly your intent.'

Gideon took a deep breath, tucking a curl of red hair behind his ear. His feet moved unconsciously into the stance of a dueller, as he imagined Morgana's raven locks swirling in the wind, her high, mocking laugh as she told him exactly where he went wrong in his hunt.

' _Vivo ostendere!_ ' he cried, yellow smoke bursting from his wand, disseminating into a large oval.

Father and son watched as an image formed in the mist, one that clearly pictured the ageless witch, wand at the ready, legs bent into the crouch of a huntress before she sprang, but nothing else.

'How does that help me know where she is?' Gideon asked, his voice falling in disappointment. The smoke withered into fading tendrils.

'Interesting,' Merwyn said simply. 'The word "show" appears to be too broad. Magic is nothing if not specific. You do not wish for the spell to "show" you Morgana, but to "reveal" her location. Let us try once more, this time with the word _revelio_. It would translate as "I reveal the living."'

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Gideon pointed his wand at the wall once more, picturing Morgana revealing herself from the void. ' _Vivo revelio._ '

A slow hum emanated from his wand. At first, Gideon thought that nothing had happened. Then Merwyn made a small noise of surprise, and Gideon noticed that he was glowing with a faint red hue. Looking around, he noticed more red hues through the castle walls, revealing rats, bats, insects and more humans. The more he looked, the dizzier he felt, until the slow hum grew to a roar and he couldn't hear anything else.

Suddenly, Merwyn was shaking him, his mouth moving wordlessly.

Except it wasn't wordlessly, Gideon realised.

'You daft boy, stop channelling your magic! Cut it off, cut it off! You're going to drain yourself dry!' Merwyn's voice came back into focus.

Gideon blinked, taking a step forwards, only to collapse into the chair that Merwyn had moved under his legs.

'How...?' he asked, but his voice came out as a croak. His brain felt sluggish, and he couldn't summon the effort to finish his question.

However, Merwyn understood immediately. 'Spell intoxication, the professors used to call it in my day. Of course, that was back when we were allowed to practice spell invention. Before it was deemed too _dangerous_ to teach. No matter, I believe I can finish this myself. As this adds a certain quality to those it affects, namely revealing themselves to the caster, and feeling the sensation of having been revealed, the spell will fall under the category of a Charm.

'As such, there is the simple matter of tweaking the hand motion upwards, like so,' he demonstrated, 'so as to halt the channelling of energy.'

The gleam was back in Merwyn's eyes as he rolled up his sleeve and pointed his wand at his son. For a wild moment, Gideon thought back to when Merwyn would experiment with his creations on his sons, making sure to perfect the spells before he would call for a Healer.

Instead, Merwyn intoned. ' _Vivo revelio._ '

Gideon felt a swooping in his stomach that counteracted the adrenaline. It felt slightly like falling off Fleetfoot, something he had done many times before. The thought of Fleetfoot put a smile to his face, though he was having trouble concentrating through his fatigue.

'I see,' Merwyn muttered, looking around, before halting the spell. He didn't seem to notice Gideon's worries, making notes and annotations on his paper.

Gideon looked at him through half-lidded eyes, trying not to drool on his father's papers as he felt himself slide into the realm of sleep. His head swayed with the effort of holding it up. Suddenly, his father glanced up, as though reading Gideon's mind.

'You may stay here for the night,' his father waved towards the cot in the corner of the room. 'I believe the servants will be able to scrounge up a room for myself for one night. In the meantime, let us fine-tune the spell so as to lessen the burden on the senses...'

Gideon had already stopped listening. As he collapsed on the furs, the last thing he heard before oblivion was " _Homenum revelio._ "


	2. Death Do Not Us Part

**I know it's not completely written in Old English, but I thought it would be illegible if so.**

 **Written for Hogwarts assignment 15.**

 **Lithomancy:** **Rose Quartz - Write about a strong, romantic and unconditional love.**

 **Words: 1,386**

* * *

'Septimus,' called the head of the illustrious Rowena Ravenclaw from the fireplace.

Baron Septimus was, at that moment, reclining with a fine vintage and a good book in front of said fire. As such, he had a good view of the rather ungainly act of one of Hogwarts' founders climbing out of a metal grate.

 _Well_ , he supposed. _That removes some of the awe surrounding those four._ He made a mental note to regale Helena with the tale. She always did love disparaging her mother.

'To what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced call, Lady Rowena?' he asked, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

'It is Helena,' the raven-haired witch said, brushing off her cloak. 'I need to see her.'

'Thou knowst as well as I the path that Helena chose,' Septimus replied mournfully.

He artfully looked out of the window in sorrow, over the rolling hills of England and briefly wondered, as he had done so many times before, what the countryside of Albania looked like. Had Helena merely asked, he would have followed her to the ends of the earth, but that was not to be.

Instead, he had a drawer full of returned letters in his bedroom, the wax still unbroken, though he recalled every word etched onto the parchment.

Turning his head back to Rowena, he felt a slight pang of annoyance that the witch wasn't paying attention. Then he realised that she was not - as he thought - brushing the soot off her dress, but trying to catch her breath.

'My Lady?' he asked, standing immediately and guiding her to an armchair.

'I will be fine,' she brushed him off. 'I thank thee.'

She let out a brief sigh as she relaxed into the chair.

'My curiosity has the better of me, Septimus,' she confided. 'I have been tampering with magic I ought to have left well alone, and this is the price I pay.'

'I fear that I do not quite understand,' Septimus replied, sinking back into his own chair. He did not offer the wine, as it seemed as though it could knock Rowena out cold if she took but a sip.

'I am dying, simply put, Septimus,' Rowena said without artifice. 'And I would like to see my daughter, one last time.'

Septimus drew his coat around his person, shivering. He wished he had brought his hat along with him.

Well. There was one thing he had to say about Albania: the countryside was beautiful.

But would Helena have chosen any less?

Some part of him knew that his love should lessen, that there were plenty of other eligible maidens in England, in Europe, in the world itself. But try as he might, there was only one face he saw at night, only one laugh he heard, haunting his dreams and waking hours alike.

It was all dreadfully romantic, and drew him the maidens' pity like moths to a flame. He enjoyed the repasts their fathers and brothers threw in order to impress him, devoured the spells that the women taught him to impress him, and yet…His life had felt empty since he walked the halls alone.

In Hogwarts, he had been made Head Boy, Helena Head Girl. Of course, there were rumours that Helena had been chosen merely because her mother was a founder, but Septimus knew otherwise.

Her wit could draw blood with a single word, and her cold beauty was harsher than any blade, but he had loved her. Still loved her. Helena possessed an otherworldly grace that others could only aspire to, born a queen in her own right.

If only she were not born in her mother's shadow.

Shaking his head of his thoughts, he pressed onwards; towards the town she was last spotted. Her dark hair could pass for a local's, he supposed, but her milky white skin would mark her as the only foreigner for miles around.

He would find her eventually.

He always did.

* * *

There she stood before him. Her eyes - how he had missed her _eyes_. Like a stormy grey sky, they belied the fire that resided within, the adventurous spirit that had her run to Albania with no knowledge of the land, nor the language, the pure ambition he admired so when she had stolen the diadem from her mother's chambers.

Only he knew of this theft, and so his heart allowed its' own small ember of hope, that one day she would see it in her heart to let him love her as she deserved, to serve her as a vassal to his dark queen, his grey lady.

'Septimus,' she greeted him, her voice carrying across the wind, although she stood well over ten paces from him.

'My Lady,' he replied, his voice husky with emotion. She hadn't changed in the slightest these past five winters. Albania had been treating her well. He cleared his throat, summoning his wits scattered by her presence. 'My Lady, you must return to England.'

Helena's eyebrows narrowed into a sharp line.

'I've told thee before, Septimus,' she replied impetuously, tossing her mane of hair. 'I'm not coming back, not for thou and not for her. I meant what I said when we last spoke.'

'And yet,' Septimus strode forwards, closing the space between them. 'And yet my heart yearns for thee still. And if thou willst not return for myself, thy mother is dying, and it is her last wish to be reconciled with thee.'

Helena simply stood, letting the silence lengthen the distance between them. Septimus waited until he could wait no longer.

'We must make haste,' he said simply. 'I have acquired a Portkey-'

'Septimus,' Helena interrupted him softly, her large grey eyes soft with emotion. 'I will not go back. I made an oath, and I intend to keep it. And...' she hesitated. 'I fear that I will not be welcome, that this is merely a ploy to have me return to become a prisoner to my own mother.'

'T'is not a trick!' Septimus cried, taking her hands into his own.

It was the wrong thing to do.

'Leave, Septimus!' she answered harshly, drawing her hands back. 'Stop this pitiful pining and let me be. Will thoust not see that we could never be together? I, the daughter of one of the greatest witches of our era, owner of the fabled diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, possessing the greatest intellect of our age, and thee, the son of a Muggle, a declining lineage, a Mudblood unworthy of the title of magic?'

Her words, as ever, cut him to the core. Salazar had often disparaged Septimus's lack of pure, magical blood, and the money spent on his reputation did nothing to heal the wound caused over many years.

'How darest thee?' Septimus roared, drawing his blade in a fit of anger. 'Those words were said in confidence.'

'How Slytherin of me,' Helena taunted. 'Even now, I am the most deserving of the wealth, of the pride, of the ambition that thy House is known for. Even now, thoust aren't but a maggot on the fruit of my endeavours.

'No!' Septimus shouted, closing his eyes to escape from the tears.

'Willst thee murder an innocent maid in cold blood, fearful of nothing but words?' Helena's voice seemed to whisper in his ear. 'Willst thee finally make a name for thyself, only to have it cursed tenfold?'

Septimus faltered, choking back a sob.

'I could never,' his voiced died in his throat.

As he shakily tried to sheathe his sword, he tripped, fumbling the blade and feeling something soft and heavy fall onto his shoulders.

 _Helena_! He thought, the embarrassment of having forced his love into his arms.

He raised his eyes, but before he was even met with the sight of his beloved, a wet and warm substance coated his hands. Instinctively, he lifted them to his face, and Helena's body fell to the floor, her waist-long hair spreading out like a halo around her face.

A strangled cry left his lips, but it was already too late. Those beautiful, grey eyes stared, unseeing, at the sky above.

A moment's pause, the drawing of a blade, and a small thump later, another body joined his beloved's.

For in the wizarding world, death do not us part.


	3. Blue Eyes and Yellow Flecks

Hogwarts Assignment #1: Write about a significant point/event/scene that caused Morgana to turn into a dark witch.

Optional prompts: (object) sword, (colour) ruby red, (colour) emerald green, (setting) forest, (action) cry, (action) holding hands, (word) fear, (object) tear.

Gobstones event: Black Stone - good vs. evil

Prompts: accuracy - refreshing, power - tightly, dialogue - "what have you done?"

Beta'd by The Kawaii Neko.

* * *

Morgana was seven the first time she snuck out of the castle.

She bound her glossy raven locks in strips of rags to hide their shine, she chewed on tea leaves to hide the whites of her teeth and she smeared a handful of dirt on her face and hands. Taking a grease-stained apron from the kitchen, she crept out into the dusk, into the town beyond.

No one spared her a second glance. She revelled in her anonymity, playing games with the vendors to see how far she could go without getting caught. Her magic manifested itself in subtle ways, hiding the sound of her footsteps, warning her when someone grew too close. She became one with the shadows, leading a double life of thievery and trickery without her father the duke becoming any the wiser.

Morgana was eleven when the wise woman caught her examining plants in the woods. Throughout her studies of potions and herbology, she had heard of the many medicinal properties given to different herbs, and she had decided that she would experiment on them to see if the theories worked.

'I'm not sure you should be outside by yourself, my lady,' the old woman chided gently.

'I'm not sure I could learn anything inside by myself, old woman,' Morgana bit back, mischief flashing through her emerald green eyes.

Instead of the expected rebuke, the witch laughed.

'My dear, this is true,' the old woman said, hesitating before she added. 'If you wish to know the true ways of the art of healing, you will not listen to those court charlatans. Magic?' she scoffed. 'What do they know of magic, they who need a piece of wood to bind their power?'

'Could you teach me then?' Morgana asked immediately, curiosity burning at her heart.

The old woman paused, before giving a short nod. 'Aye, I could teach you. But this must remain secret. Your father does not approve of my methods, though that does not stop him from soliciting my help when needed.'

And thus, Morgana became wise in the ways of healing, the labels of "light" and "dark" losing any meaning when it came to the saving of a life.

* * *

Morgana was fifteen when she was caught.

'A girl shouldn't be wandering the forest alone at night. Especially a princess.'

Morgana whirled around from the St John's Wort she was examining. A young man around her age was standing before her, a bow loosely slung over his back, his well-worn leather boots making no noise as he approached.

'Technically, it's not night anymore. And I'm not a princess,' she retaliated, motioning towards the rising sun. 'Now if you will excuse me...'

'Impatient to see who you will marry, are you?' the boy asked, drawing ever nearer.

Morgana glanced at him. His hair, which she had thought to be black, was instead a dark brown, his eyes blue with yellow flecks. He was rather handsome, in a way. He raised an eyebrow, looking down at the newly picked flower, the morning dew still shimmering atop its yellow petals.

'Nothing so frivolous,' she replied eventually. She knew of the legend, of course.

Pick the flower at sunrise, before the first drop of dew falls from its leaves, and place it under your pillow at sunset. At night, you will dream of the person you will marry.

'Of course not,' the boy replied, but there was an air of mockery about it.

'I'll have you know that St John's wort has useful medicinal properties,' Morgana replied hotly.

'My apologies, princess,' the boy gave a mock bow, cocking his head up to look at her. 'But the adverse side effects are nearly worse than the initial illness.'

'Well, maybe you're not brewing the potion properly,' she snapped back, straightening her dress. 'And stop calling me princess. My name is Morgana.'

'I'll stop calling you princess the day you stop wearing gold and silver in your hair,' the boy scoffed.

Morgana touched a hand to her head. She had forgotten the obligatory gold circlet atop her brown, the silver clips pinning her hair out of place. Still, it wouldn't do to show the boy her discomfort, so she sniffed, turning her nose up at him.

'I'll tell you what,' the boy said, his tone turning serious. 'I won't tell anyone you've been here if you allow me to escort you back. I wasn't joking when I said these woods are dangerous.'

Morgana twisted her lip. She was running dangerously late for her first lessons of the day, and the boy seemed harmless. So she gave a nod, and let him lead her back the way she came.

They walked through the trees in silence. Morgana marvelled at the boy's lithe grace, at his cat-like movements, knowing exactly where to step so as to leave the least amount of trace. That was, until she spotted the insignia on the breast of his leather jerkin.

'You're a royal forester,' she noted.

'Took you that long to notice, eh?' the boy laughed. 'But yes. Hunting bandits, stopping poachers, the works. Doesn't beat being a princess though, does it?'

'Oh, I wouldn't say so,' Morgana muttered under her breath, anticipating the stuffy gowns of that evening's ball. Glancing back at the boy, she brightened. 'Will you be at the ball this evening?'

'Me, the ball? You've got to be joking, my lady. Us commoners aren't good enough for the likes of you.'

Morgana let out another "hmph", but said nothing.

All too soon, they arrived at the forest's edge.

'Here we are, princess,' the forester said. 'Try to stay out of the woods from now on.'

Morgana looked at him, unsure as whether to be angry with him for his patronising tone, or to thank him for taking her through a shortcut. In the end the frustrating twinkle in his eyes got the better of her, and she stormed off into the castle without a word.

* * *

The ball had been stuffy, as per usual. Morgana's father had even suggested beforehand that she find someone to marry. Her? Marry? She had much more interesting things on her mind, thank you very much.

So the next day she put away her silver ribbons and carefully hid her golden circlet, grabbing a serving girl's dress and the cook's apron on her way out of the castle. Her father was discussing important matters, and her tutors had excused her for the day to better advise him on how to deal with the growing dissent in his dukedom.

Outside, it was raining slightly, but not so much that it was a bother. Picking up her skirts, Morgana ran lightly down to the city, eager to find out what interesting things she could learn from the people.

However, as soon as she set foot through the gates the heavens opened and released their wrath. Morgana joined the throngs of people searching for shelter from the storm, ending up in a tavern filled with the city guard. As she went up to the bar to order a bowl of hot broth, a familiar face caught her eye.

He was laughing with several other rangers, drinking mead and eating chunks of bread and cheese. He was in the midst of telling a story when he caught her eye and faltered. Quickly, she looked away - a commoner would have no right to talk to a forester, and things could go badly for her if she did. Trying to find a distraction, she had a serving girl on a break teach her the fine art of darts.

Still, it came as no surprise when she found him waiting outside the back entrance - a back entrance she had taken in case he was watching out front.

'You should take more care, princess,' he said in a low voice, his tone undulating with humour. 'The streets are no place for a treasure like you.'

There were a thousand things that Morgana could have, should have, retorted, but instead a question slipped out unbidden.

'How did you know it was me?'

The forester reached down and caught one of her carefully calloused hands in his own, holding it up for her to see.

'A mere peasant girl would not have fingernails so clean,' he answered, turning their hands around so that she could see his own.

Morgana was loathe to admit the truth beneath his words. Her fingernails were pink, the cuticles cut back, but more importantly there was no dirt beneath the jutting edge, which was white where the boy's were brown with grime. She wanted to snatch her hand back, to correct her mistake, for Morgana never made mistakes, but she felt an odd reluctance, enjoying the feel of his palm against her own.

Looking up to meet those blue eyes with yellow flecks, she couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same.

* * *

She met him twice again before the moon waxed to its full.

The first, she had gone looking for him in the forest, wanting to catch him whilst he was on duty as he had caught her using… less savoury methods in magic. But her movements had been too slow, or too loud, and it was he who had snuck up on her. He taught her how to step in tune with the forest, how to track an animal and hunt a hunter. Night had fallen before Morgana realised that she had missed three classes that day.

The second was entirely by chance. Her father wished her to visit a nearby village, to put her healing expertise to good use. It had been refreshing to be allowed to do something, even if she did have to travel with guards. One of her personal guards had taken ill on the road, and who was to replace him but one of the trackers who had been sent to make sure the road was clear?

And if this was a lucky coincidence or fate, who was Morgana to decide, as she emptied the wine skein of all bitter herbs?

'Tell me, forester,' she said as she descended from the carriage. 'What is your name?'

'A bold question, my lady,' he had replied, his tone as glib as ever. 'My name is my most precious object, do you really think that I would part with it so easily?'

Morgana raised one inky eyebrow.

'You do know that I could command you to tell me, should I so desire?'

'With all due respect, my lady, you won't,' the forester said confidently. 'You enjoy puzzles and courtly games, and it would feel like cheating were the answer to be given up through coercion.'

Morgana lowered her eyebrow. He had a point. Not that she would concede, however.

'His name's Thomas, my lady,' one of her other guards called. 'And a right cocky bastard he is, too.'

Morgana let the smirk spread across her face as Thomas glared at his companion.

'So, Thomas,' she said lightly. 'Are you ready to enter the village?'

'Me, your grace?' Thomas's tone faltered a little. 'Isn't the village touched by the Black Death?'

'Are you afraid, Thomas?' Morgana teased, mercilessly seizing his fear. 'I thought you were, to put it bluntly, "a right cocky bastard"?'

Several of the carriage guard tittered at hearing their lady use such foul language. Others looked outraged, but wisely chose to hold their tongues. Her words had the intended effect on her target, who straightened his leathers and gave her a nod.

'Lead on, my lady,' he said shortly.

Morgana simply turned on her heel, letting her cloak billow out behind her for effect. The truth was that she had nothing left to say. The truth was that she had expected him to back down, to stay. The truth was that she was used to getting her way. Instead, a strange feeling unfurled beneath her breast, a sharp ache that would not go away.

* * *

'Tom!' Morgana cried, jumping over one of the creeks that ran through the forests. 'Tom!'

The ranger turned, as if surprised to see her there, though how could he have thought otherwise? He had been sent with a team to deal with a pack of ferocious bandits and had returned alone.

Morgana threw herself at him, not caring for etiquette, not caring for decorum, simply happy to see him alive and unhurt.

'I heard the news,' she said breathlessly. 'I didn't know how to find you. My rank is either too high or too low for me to care about you.'

'You care about me?' Tom's breath hitched, his customary teasing tone gone.

'Of course I do,' Morgana replied scathingly, clinging to him tightly. He smelled of leather and sweat, but also of pine and fresh rainwater - a scent that in her mind uniquely belonged to Tom, though others might say that it was the smell of every ranger. 'You fool.'

She had meant to lighten the mood, to return to the way things had been for the past year, but instead she found herself gazing into those yellow flecked eyes. What would she have done without him? Her studies would go on, the world would keep spinning, but somehow she imagined it would be a little dimmer, as though all of the warmth would be sucked from the sun.

Suddenly, she realised that she had been staring into his eyes for longer than was strictly appropriate, even given the inappropriateness of their , she was held from looking away by the knowledge that Tom had been staring into her own eyes for equally as long a time.

Her mouth felt dry, though the weather was unseasonably wet, and she licked her lips, her eyes flickering down to his own. They were permanently curved into a smile, even when he wasn't amused, which was rare to be true. During her examination, she felt an unfathomable pull, as though gravity had changed direction and was now pulling her forwards instead of down.

Her head felt heavy as her lips met Tom's, and his supporting hand that found its way into her hair only seemed like the natural course of action. Equally as natural was her body pressing against his - it was gravity, after all, nothing her fault - and she had to curl her own arms around him to prevent herself from toppling further.

It was several minutes before they pulled apart, and several more before he gathered the nerve to tell her that this was something forbidden, not done, even for a rule-breaker such as himself. Morgana could tell what he was thinking even before he said it, and so cut him off with another kiss, backing him into a tree, where they slid down the trunk and continued their silent reunion until the sun rose over the horizon.

* * *

The moon had waxed and waned three times before disaster struck. Or rather, the wrong disaster struck.

Morgana had decided that it was time she tell Tom about her magic. Not just the rumours of her sorcery, of her shapeshifting, but of real magic, the type that ran through her veins and the veins of many more - if the rumours of the founding of a school named "Hogwarts" were to be true.

She had put on her best dress, kept the silver thread through her hair that he mocked on their first encounter, but that he had admitted to secretly adoring three nights past. She had also put on her leather riding boots, the ones she had told her father were a gift from a suitor, but that had been a clandestine birthday present from her lover. Morgana was determined Tom see her for who she was, all of her, before she went and did something irrevocable, such as telling her father about their liaison.

But Tom was not to be found. She had combed the forest, high and low, before she gave up. The next day, she would attempt the town. On her way back to the castle though, she spotted the glint of metal catch the setting sun's rays. Something inside her pushed her to look more closely, so she carefully stepped around broken tree roots until she found the remains of a badger den.

There, she found Tom, but not Tom as she knew him. He was pale and feverish, the water at the stones below his head running ruby red. Morgana pieced the facts together. He had slipped in the stream and fallen, catching his head on the rocks below. Those were the facts, but what was the truth? For the Tom Morgana knew would never have slipped.

'Don't be hasty in your judgement,' Morgana told herself, repeating her logic teacher's words. 'Analyse the problem.'

Quickly, she tore a strip off her dress, lifting Tom's head gently so as not to flare the pain.

'Episkey,' she murmured, passing a hand over the back of his head. A white light flared out of her palm, before the wound beneath it disappeared. Still, Morgana wanted to give him the best chance she could, so she tied the bandage in place.

'Ennervate,' she whispered, closing her eyes and focusing on the spell.

If only she had a wand, but her father was ashamed enough of her magic as it was. A wand would only serve to complicate things.

'Mor...gana?' Tom coughed weakly, stirring under her touch.

'Shh,' the witch replied worriedly.

Tom had never called her by her given name. It was one barrier he had always refused to cross. She had dreamed of this moment, but the fates had decided to grant her wish in the cruellest of ways. The ranger complied with her command, but coughed again, a dark red stain spreading on his lips.

Suddenly, Morgana knew exactly what was wrong. It had ravaged the country, torn families apart and had the Duke of Cornwall send for his best physicians. Even the magic of the wise woman had no power against the Black Death.

'And it's all my fault,' she whispered. 'If I hadn't taken you on my trips… I'm immune, but I should have known that you… It's all my fault.'

A tear dripped from her nose, splashing onto Thomas's face. The motion jerked Morgana out of her guilt, and she rose determinedly. With a wave of her hand, Tom was put to sleep; one more wave and his limp body was following her to the castle, manners be damned.

* * *

'But Father, you must help me save him!' Morgana pleaded.

She had easily talked the guards at the gate into letting her bring Thomas into the castle grounds, but had encountered resistance at the door. One of the porters had a relative succumb to the plague, and had recognised the symptoms immediately.

The bell had tolled, Morgana had pleaded, and the result was that the Duke and his wife were wakened from their slumber, displeased to hear that their daughter had been in the forest, and even more so to learn that she had brought a plague victim along with her.

'Morgana, what is this tomfoolery?' the Duke said quietly. He always spoke quietly, something Morgana hated about him. 'First you go off gallivanting with some… glorified shephard, then you try to bring the Black Death into this castle. Do you have any idea of the danger you've put us in? We could be killed! We could all be infected this very instant! What have you done?'

Morgana simply shook her head and wept. Lady Igraine took one look at her, and her face softened.

'Can't you see, dear? Our daughter is in love,' she said, half-whispering so only the three of them could hear.'

'Morgana? Is this true?' the Duke demanded.

Morgana couldn't bear to shake her head, to say no. She wasn't going to lie about Tom, not after all she had put him through. Her father knew the truth as soon as he heard her silence. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

'Morgana,' he said, more gently this time. 'He cannot stay. Do you hear? He cannot stay. There is only one person who could help him now.'

* * *

'What have you done?' Morgana shrieked, all sense of self-preservation gone. If there was a hint of irony in her repetition of her father's statement, she could not appreciate it in that moment.

For her Tom, her dear, brave, foolish Tom, was gone. The wise woman had pronounced him too far gone and given him milk of the poppy. By the time Morgana realised what was happening, the deed had been done.

'I only alleviated his suffering, my lady,' the woman bowed her head in sorrow. 'I am truly sorry for your loss.'

'My loss was not yours to take!' Morgana replied angrily, her eyes flashing with hatred. 'Leave us, or face the consequences.'

The wise woman hesitated, her hand going to the poppy resin, her eyes filled with pity.

'I said leave!' Morgana's voice rose to a piercing call, and the woman hurried out of her own home.

Once she had gone, Morgana collapsed onto her lover's body. He was still warm. She hugged him, shook him, kissed him, but all to no avail.

'The books all say true love's kiss can cure anything,' she said furiously, not caring that she didn't make any sense. 'They say that it can bring someone back from the dead. Why are all the books lying?'

A wave of magic burst through the windows of the small cottage, leaving the noise of shattered glass ringing throughout the night. Morgana threw herself to her feet, pacing. Noticing that the wise woman had left her books, she desperately clawed through them, not caring that some of the pages ripped, not caring that her fingers were covered in ink. Finally, she arrived at the spell she wanted.

'Here,' she breathed. 'Fear not, Tom, for I will bring you back. I will give back what I stole and all shall be forgiven.'

She raced out of the cottage, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that her mentor was still there. Schooling her face, she approached the woman.

'Forgive me,' she said, fighting to keep her roiling emotions in check. 'I just… I wish I had had a final goodbye and when you took that from me…'

'It's all right, child,' the wise woman replied, laying a hand on Morgana's shoulder. 'Grief is a natural part of the healing process.'

Morgana felt a surge of rage. How dare the woman call her a child simply because she was upset? And how dare she accept the apology so quickly?

'I think I may need that milk of poppy.' Morgana let through a choked sob. 'I fear what I might do, should I not receive it.'

'Of course,' the wise woman hurried back into the cottage. 'I have just the thing for a broken heart.'

As her mentor prepared the mortar and pestle, Morgana slipped Tom's hunting knife from the sheath around his knee. Slowly, she crept around to the old woman, using the techniques from the forest to move soundlessly through the room. Then, without warning, she stabbed her old mentor in the back.

'A life for a life,

A heart for a heart.

Between the living and the dead,

Let the barrier part.'

As she sounded the memorised incantation, Morgana maneuvered the wise woman's body to Tom's, breaking open his leathers so that his body could drink in the warm blood of the old crone.

'Vivi mortius!' Morgana cried aloud, hoping against hope that this was one spell she would get right on the first time. Holding her palm over Tom's face, she carefully drew a line of blood, squeezing it into Tom's mouth and making sure it went down his throat.

A heartbeat passed.

Then two. Then three.

A shuddering breath.

But this time it didn't come from Morgana.

'Tom!' she cried with joy, placing a hand on either side of his face. 'Tom, can you hear me?'

Another shuddering breath. Tom didn't reply. It was then that Morgana realised that the flesh beneath her fingers was cold. He opened his eyes, but they weren't a laughing blue with flecks of yellow. They were as white as the milk that had killed him, no iris, no pupil, no life. The spell hadn't worked. Quickly, she ran back to the spellbook, wondering where she went wrong. The incantation had been correct. She turned the page, wondering what she had missed.

Inferi are animated corpses, belonging to neither life nor death. They will obey their master's orders and for all senses and purposes act like living beings. However they do not feel emotions or create thoughts. They are as puppets, simply brought to life by the puppet master.

As it is well known within the magical world, there is no way to bring someone back from the dead. The closest example of bringing a person to life lies within the tale of the Peverell brothers. Legend has it that the shade brought back is a shadow of the person they were in life. Though their physical being comes alive, their soul still rests within the spirit realm. There is a theory, however, that the sheath of Excalibur cures all wounds. In theory, if a dead body were to be animated to prevent it from being decomposed, Excalibur's sheath could cure the person in question of Death itself. This theory could not be tested, as the sword Excalibur has been lost to the ages.

Morgana knew what she had to do. Find excalibur, whatever the cost.


End file.
